Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man

Oh, there are times

When all this fret and tumult that we hear

Do seem more stale than to the sexton’s ear

His own dull chimes.

Ding dong! ding dong!

The world is in a simmer like a sea

Over a pent volcano,—woe is me

All the day long!

From crib to shroud!

Nurse o’er our cradles screameth lullaby,

And friends in boots tramp round us as we die,

Snuffling aloud.

At morning’s call

The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,

And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one,

Give answer all.

When evening dim

Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul,

Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall,—

These are our hymn.

Women, with tongues

Like polar needles, ever on the jar;

Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are

Within their lungs.

Children, with drums

Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass;

Peripatetics with a blade of grass

Between their thumbs.

Vagrants, whose arts

Have caged some devil in their mad machine,

Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between,

Come out by starts.

Cockneys that kill

Thin horses of a Sunday,—men, with clams,

Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams

From hill to hill.

Soldiers, with guns,

Making a nuisance of the blessed air,

Child-crying bellman, children in despair,

Screeching for buns.

Storms, thunders, waves!

Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill;

Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still

But in their graves.